


and the house felt so big (and i felt so small)

by Anonymous



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eating Disorder Recovery, Food Issues, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Iroh (Avatar) is a Good Uncle, Mental Illnesses, Past Child Abuse, Sick Zuko (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar) Needs a Hug, Zuko (Avatar) whump, Zuko has chronic pain, heed the tags, i swear this will have a hopeful ending, iroh is just trying his best to help these traumatized children, ozai is in prison and was never heard from again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27498292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Fact #1: It’s been a year, but Zuko’s life is still in boxes.In the span of a year, everything has changed. Zuko's father will never hurt him again, but that doesn't mean that all the trauma and shame just disappear. He can see that his friends want to help, he can see that Uncle hurts inside when Zuko doesn't eat, but he hasn't figured out what else to do about it.
Relationships: Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka & Zuko (Avatar), The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 254
Collections: Anonymous





	1. leaving these broken pieces behind you

**Author's Note:**

> Before your proceed, please read through the tags and stay away if you think that reading this might hurt you. I've personally been in recovery for almost 4 years now, and it sucks but eventually you realize it is the only way forward. As a reader, it’s your responsibility to heed the tags.
> 
> This fic deals with some sensitive topics in detail. For a complete and detailed list of warnings, see the end notes.
> 
> This work is anonymous because I just don’t want to give irl people such a deep dive into my mental health. However, I’m still actively writing and paying attention, and really appreciate every reader!

Fact #1: It’s been a year, but Zuko’s life is still in boxes.

Zuko knows that in principle, it wouldn’t be that hard to just unpack, and that eventually the room will start to feel like it belongs to him and not to his cousin’s ghost. When Zuko and Azula first came to live with him, Uncle had solemnly boxed most of Lu Ten’s old things away in the attic to make room. To make _space_. As if Zuko has any right to take up space in this house.

“Zuko, would you please come set the table?” Uncle Iroh calls up the stairs, as cordial as always.

Zuko shoves his hands into his hoodie and climbs down the creaky staircase.

Uncle looks up from stirring something on the counter and smiles at him when he enters.

Zuko clears the newspapers and puzzle books off of the table and sets them aside, then goes to the drawer where Iroh keeps the placemats. He hesitates.

“Your sister won’t be joining us,” Uncle clarifies. Which is a polite way to say that Azula’s run away again. At least by now Iroh has learned to call Mai’s father before he panics, because eighty percent of the time that’s where she runs to.

So Zuko arranges two placemats and two water cups on the table. Even setting a place for himself feels like an intrusion.

Iroh sets the steaming cast-iron pan on a potholder and sits down to eat. He gestures for Zuko to do the same.

Zuko feels the heat creeping up to his face as he takes little bites. The food is light, noodles and tofu and vegetables in a warm and spicy broth, but Zuko’s spoon feels heavy. He rolls each tiny taste carefully over his tongue. He gets the sense that Uncle is scrutinizing him. It sends an unwanted tingle up his spine.

“Zuko, are you looking forward to tomorrow?”

Zuko almost drops his spoon. He tells himself that it’s okay, that it’s not some kind of trick to get him to say something incriminating, Uncle probably actually wants to know. “I guess.”

“We should order in tomorrow night. The first day of school is always worth celebrating.”

“Okay.” He swallows carefully, suppressing a sudden urge to gag.

The food sits like a rock in his stomach. He doesn’t miss the way Uncle’s neck cranes to see how much is left in Zuko’s bowl. Uncle puts away the leftovers while Zuko clears the dishes.

“Zuko,” Iroh starts to say, probably about round on him with a tin of cookies or guilt him into sitting back down for a cup of tea and a lengthy conversation.

Before he can say it, Zuko is already halfway up the stairs.

Fact #2: Ozai is behind bars, and deep down, Zuko knows that this is a relief.

But like everything else in the past year, that fact paints Zuko’s life in contradictions.

He’s glad that his father is gone from their lives. He’s glad Uncle doesn’t hit him or reach out with cruel fingers to pinch his arms or his waist. But he can’t help but feel like if he’d just been good enough, his father wouldn’t have needed to react the way he did and his life wouldn’t have been uprooted.

He hates his sister, hates how she parrots Ozai’s criticisms and looks down on him with schadenfreude in her smirk. He also feels guilty that her life has been uprooted too. If Zuko hadn’t angered Father, there wouldn’t have been an injury, and then there wouldn’t have been a scar, or a trial or a custody battle or a new house or a new school.

As for the new school, Zuko doesn’t have much of an opinion yet. Iroh gives him a big hug on his way out the door, which reminds him of something Mom would’ve done. He’s assigned to a volunteer tour guide, a kid who honestly looks too young to be in high school. He has a huge, fluffy medical alert dog, and apparently never stops talking.

“So anyway, everybody loves spicy noodle day, it’s the best lunch the school makes!” the boy prattles as he directs Zuko to the cafeteria. “Also 11th and 12th form are allowed to go to the library during their lunch if they want, so you could do that even though I’m not allowed to yet. You can’t bring any food though so you have to eat first. Also this is my lunch period too! So you could sit with my friends and I if you wanted, and—”

“Thanks. I get the idea.” Zuko doesn’t glance over to see the crestfallen look on the 9th year’s face. He cringes. The kid seems nice but Zuko doesn’t think he can stand one more minute of his babbling. The smell of the cafeteria is hot and nauseating.

He takes the kid’s (Zuko has already forgotten the tour guide’s name) advice and signs out to go to the library.

Skipping breakfast was easy, skipping lunch is even easier. But when he gets home at the end of the day and lets himself in, nobody is home. He checks every room to make sure that Azula is still at Mai’s house and Uncle is still at the _Dragon_. With his anxiety sated, he sits on the floor of Lu Ten’s closet—his closet—and caves in to the demands of his gurgling stomach. He can't feel like he has a right to eat Uncle's food, but he can dull the pain with sugar from the stash he's been maintaining in a box under a pile of unpacked clothes. Two entire packages of chocolate-covered sponge cakes later, Zuko feels simultaneously better and worse.

The relief is only temporary, a grace period of numbness before the shame starts to creep in.

Fact #3: Zuko had gained a lot of weight during the trial.

Nobody had said anything (except Azula, but she doesn’t count, even if the comments hurt more than usual when he knows that they’re true).

He’s done the math and he thinks he’ll need two, maybe three months to get back to normal, assuming he can cut back on incidents like last night. He carefully smuggles the empty wrappers to school balled up in a grocery bag, and throws them away when no one is looking.

There’s an ugly feeling sitting in his throat that makes it easy to skip breakfast.

Azula has self-control. She drinks stupid green smoothies that taste like dirt and grass, and fake-complains about her body to her volleyball teammates. Zuko isn’t stupid, he knows that’s not healthy either—in a full year of living with Uncle Iroh she hasn’t tasted his cooking once, and Zuko thinks she would probably have a panic attack if she tried. But at least her issues make sense, her struggles aren’t twisted and humiliating. Zuko wants to be sicker than he is, but he doesn’t have the self-control. How perverse is that?

He pretends he doesn’t see the tour guide kid waving and spends his lunch period in the library again.

“Hey, are you seriously sleeping right now?”

Zuko startles. He had only rested his head on his arms for a moment, waiting for the pounding in his head to stop. He gets migraines which throb around his cheek sometimes, which the doctor thinks is due to nerve damage in the deepest layers of skin around his eye. Today he’s lightheaded and his stomach hurts too, but that might just be from low blood sugar.

“What’s it to you?” he grumbles.

“You’re using the only copy of the calc textbook as your pillow,” the boy who woke him snaps. “And some of us were hoping to do the homework by 8th period.”

Zuko shoves the book across the table. He looks more closely, and realizes that he recognizes the kid from yesterday’s calculus class, he sits in the front row. Probably a nerd. “Have you ever considered…doing the _home_ work…at home?” Zuko ventures.

“Ha! New kid is witty. Well, unfortunately the role of Funny Guy in our friend group has already been filled, but thank you for your application.” He tucks the book under his arm.

Zuko blinks at him. He’s so tired, and so hungry, and his brain feels like it’s only operating at half capacity.

“I’m kidding,” the boy clarifies, extending a hand. “Sokka. Aang says you’re pretty grumpy, and he’s a ball of sunshine so you must’ve been pretty grumpy with him.”

“Zuko,” Zuko grumbles as he shakes the offered hand. “And sorry?”

“Nah, he’ll be fine. See you 8th?”

Not like they have much choice, but Zuko agrees.

There’s a convenience store on the way home from school. Zuko’s already been there too many times this week and he’s afraid the employees will recognize and judge him, but his resolve has been crumbling since lunchtime. He buys two family-size bags of chips and two rice pouches and another box of sponge cakes, and brings it all back to Lu Ten’s closet—his closet—to devour like the day before.

He cries when he’s done. It was a repulsive thing to do. Azula would never have done it. Everything bad that’s happened to him, feels like it’s happened because he lacks restraint, lacks moderation.

Tomorrow will be different, he promises himself. He’s going to stop this, he’s going to get himself back on track. Part of him doesn’t even bother to believe it.

Fact #4: The next day isn’t different. But eventually, there comes a day that is.

It doesn’t feel different, at first.

He tells Uncle that he’ll eat when he gets to school, and then doesn’t. He goes to the library during lunch. He sees Sokka curled up with the calc textbook, doing his homework last minute again, but doesn’t say hello.

Nothing is different until he’s sitting against the wall of Lu— _his_ closet, shoving all the empty wrappers into the largest chip bag. Waves of shame crest and ebb painfully in his chest. He tells Uncle he doesn’t feel up to dinner, blames it on another migraine.

He can’t believe how much he’s eaten. Forget Azula, no normal human would have ever. He’s a horrible, bloated, lump of a person and it makes him want to be sick. No sooner has the thought crossed his mind then he is retching into the bag of wrappers.

He quickly relocates to the bathroom. He hovers over the sink, but the urge to vomit doesn’t come again. He realizes that he wants it to.

He doesn’t realize, at the time, how pivotal a decision he is making. But he remembers Ty Lee mentioning something about a toothbrush once, and with trembling hands he realizes that is easy, too easy, to trigger his gag reflex over and over until his stomach feels empty and sore and the shame is banished, at least for tonight.


	2. learn to slam on the brakes (before i even turn the key)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko quickly falls into a comfortable pattern. But it seems like Uncle notices, and Sokka notices too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to the most stressful meal of my life, in a very expensive family-style restaurant with my boss (yikes!) and his wife and their colleague who was in town from halfway across the country.

Fact #5: Purging is so, _so_ much easier than restricting.

Instead of the constant internal struggle of fighting off the desire for food and comfort, Zuko lets himself lean into it and just gets rid of everything when he’s done. His stomach hurts constantly, but once he starts to see progress in the mirror for the first time in his life, he’s addicted.

Azula comes home. She doesn’t say much to Uncle—she never does. But the first time she overhears Zuko retching in the shower, she thinks it’s extremely funny.

“That doesn’t even fucking work, dum-dum,” she sneers, with that half-laughing expression Zuko hates. “You can’t actually throw up all the calories. This is why you’re still fat.”

He bites back the impulse to reply that he actually has lost some weight, because it only invites another jab. Of course, he thinks, if he were Azula he could just drink stupid smoothies and work out for hours after school, but he can't, so he uses the tools available to him. He gets better at throwing up quietly.

Zuko finds himself leaning against a table in the library, distracted by the pain in his stomach.

“Um, can I help you?” Sokka looks him up and down, and frowns. “What the hell dude, are you sick?”

“I need the book,” Zuko rasps.

“You and me both,” says Sokka pointedly. Zuko blinks, and realizes he’s just ribbing. “I’m already on the second page of problems, but you can look on.” He pushes the textbook to the center of the table.

Zuko forgets to thank him as he sinks down into a chair. His stomach makes a loud, gurgling noise.

Sokka laughs, which makes Zuko want to melt into the floor. “Need some pretzels there, buddy?”

Zuko accepts exactly two pretzels with a mumble of thanks and chews them very slowly. They’re salty, but bland enough that he isn’t immediately nauseated. At this point, his stomach is so conditioned that he gets queasy even when he doesn’t want to, but such a small portion of an unoffending food is usually safe.

He finishes the assignment, and, for once, accepts Sokka’s invite to go back to the cafeteria and sit with him and his friends.

The shame hasn’t really gone away. Nothing really sits in his stomach for too long anymore, even if he wants it to. But at least now, he thinks, he knows how to muffle it for a little while.

Fact #6: Uncle knows.

Zuko isn’t sure know how _much_ he knows. He is mindful about where and when he disposes of the food wrappers from his binges, and he’s careful never to purge while Uncle is home, but Uncle knows that something isn’t right.

It’s been almost a month now. The headaches and stomachaches are constant, but Zuko is happy with his progress, and perversely, he is feeling more hopeful than he has in a long, long time.

Uncle knocks on his door while he’s doing his chemistry homework. He mumbles permission for him to come in.

“Zuko,”

Uncle navigates the maze of dirty clothes and still-unopened moving boxes to sit down on Lu Ten’s bed—Zuko’s bed, and waits until Zuko swivels his desk chair around.

“Nephew, how are you liking your new school?”

“It’s fine.” Zuko shrugs.

“Have your classmates been welcoming?”

“They’re fine.”

Uncle pauses thoughtfully. “You have been looking rather run down since the semester began. Are you quite sure you’ve been sleeping enough?” He hesitates. “Eating enough?”

“The migraines make it hard to sleep sometimes,” Zuko says, steering back towards something Uncle already knows. “And I’m still having the nightmares.”

“I see.” Uncle nods. He has the grace to pretend that this is new information, when Zuko knows for a fact that Uncle and Azula can both hear him when he cries out in his sleep. Every once in a while, he is awoken by a shriek of Azula’s too.

Uncle puts his hands in his sleeves. “Zuko, if a painter does not step back and devote time to clean and care for his tools, he soon finds that the work takes twice as long and comes out quite muddied.”

“I have a chem quiz tomorrow. I really have to study,” Zuko practically begs.

Uncle stands up. His eyes are so full of sadness that Zuko wants to disintegrate into a pile of ash.

“I’ve just been tired,” Zuko insists. His voice is painfully strained.

“Please care for yourself,” Uncle whispers. “Would you join me for a cup of tea when you are finished with that assignment?”

Zuko swallows and nods, unable to do anything else.

He creeps down the stairs like a ghost an hour later, and Uncle puts the kettle on to heat. The molasses cookies that Uncle likes are sitting out on the table, waiting menacingly.

Uncle pours the tea and chats, like Uncle always does. Zuko would never admit it, but he is soothed by the gossip from the tea shop regulars and the anecdotes about the various eccentric suppliers that Uncle contracts with for locally-sourced ingredients.

He wonders if Uncle will notice if he takes a cookie. He wonders if he'll notice if he doesn't. He hopes that if he just pretends that nothing is wrong, they can be done talking about it.

He sips at his tea.

Fact #7: Uncle isn’t done talking about it.

He catches Zuko gently by the elbow a week later.

“Zuko, this doesn’t seem to be getting better on its own. I think you need to see the doctor.”

Zuko sighs audibly, just so Uncle knows he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t care. He’s been to enough doctors in the past year, from general practitioners to dermatologists to therapists to chronic pain specialists. One more appointment doesn’t fucking matter.

Fact #8: Neither is Sokka.

When Zuko looks in the mirror, he focuses on the weight from the months of Ozai’s trial that has finally slipped off his frame, but there are other changes too. His face usually looks swollen from the vomiting, and a dark shadow has taken up permanent residence under his good eye . Maybe that’s why Sokka asked if he was sick. Either that, or it’s just the fact that he sleeps all the time.

“Hey,” A voice startles Zuko out of another accidental nap in the library, with the impatience of a person who has already asked more than once.

“Hmm?” Zuko grumbles.

“I said, are you in for Suki’s birthday tonight? We’re meeting up at Aang’s at seven,” Sokka repeats.

“Oh. Yeah, of course,” Zuko says. He sends Uncle a quick text for permission.

Birthdays mean food, and Zuko knows that eating in front of his friends is going to be a challenge. He thinks he can handle it. They meet up at Aang’s house, which is exactly as quirky as he imagined it would be and has a startling number of cats, in addition to Appa, the enormous, fluffy service dog. Zuko quickly settles down, especially when Momo (a Siamese known to be particular about the laps he deigns to sit in) curls up and purrs on his chest.

In hindsight, he should have known they would be going to a restaurant. He shouldn't be surprised when everybody gets up to leave, and Sokka and Suki start up a lively chant about their favorite curry place. He knew he would probably have to eat in front of them, so it shouldn't be a shock when he is shepherded down the street and dragged into a corner booth in a dim, smoky, hole-in-the-wall restaurant filled with delicious aromas.

Sokka orders a ridiculous quantity of food for the table, and Zuko is thankful for that, because it spares him from having to make any choices. When it arrives, the others are almost too busy heaping curry and rice and side dishes onto their plates to pay attention to him. 

Almost. “Hey Sokka, is Sparky eating?” Toph asks with her mouth full.

“As a matter of fact, no, he is not pulling his weight. We are on a mission people!” Sokka declares, slamming his fist comically onto the table. “No doggy bags, we die like men!”

“I’m eating,” Zuko says lamely, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. He has some naan and a small puddle of a bright orange chickpea dish on his plate, and has been working at it slowly. He’s having a hard time gauging how much a normal person with a normal appetite might take. Toph, Sokka, and Suki are definitely outliers. It’s fine when they overdo it, since they’re being funny and having a good time, but Zuko feels like that excuse doesn’t apply to him.

Zuko peeks at Katara’s plate for reference instead. It definitely has more food than his. With a sheepish glance towards Sokka, he quickly takes another portion from the dish closest to him.

Sokka gives him a half-confused look, and returns to shoveling rice into his mouth and recounting funny stories from birthdays past.

"And then to deescelate the situation, Aang pulled this entire story out of his ass, about two little kids playing with a ball, and they were eating it up! He almost had me convinced! And then—"

Zuko is only partially listening. It takes up a lot of his focus to keep putting little bites on his tongue and rolling them around until he can swallow. Eventually he looks up from his plate, and sees everyone else’s utensils resting on the table. They're all already finished.

The spoon clatters as Zuko sets it down, his heart racing.

Nobody seems to notice except Aang. “Don’t worry Zuko, you don’t have to rush. Besides, that could go on for hours,” he gestures towards Katara and Suki, who are in the midst of a heated debate about the Kyoshi Warriors martial arts team's performance at last year's national competition.

“Yeah,” Zuko agrees.

Unwanted nausea bubbles at the back of his throat. He tries to swallow to get rid of it, but the heat in his face is making him lightheaded. He pushes his chair back from the table, which causes the whole group to turn to him.

“I’m…” Zuko can’t think of what to say, so he just bolts. He rushes outside just in time to throw up in the alley next to the building. He presses the heel of his hand into his forehead to regain some balance.

“Hey—whoa,”

Zuko cringes when he hears Sokka’s voice. His face feels like its burning.

“You really aren’t doing well, are you?” Sokka blurts out. “I mean, sorry. You don’t have to tell us anything, but you seem sick a lot. Is it serious?”

“Not sick.” Zuko straightens his shoulders and tries to stop shaking. Sokka doesn’t understand, he thinks this is some physical illness. His pity is misplaced, Zuko thinks.

“Want a ride home? Katara just texted Dad, and he won’t mind dropping you off.”

Zuko shakes his head in refusal.

He can’t go back inside the restaurant, so he says goodbye to the others at the bus station. He tries not to read too much into the extra squeeze Sokka gives his shoulder as they part.

When he gets home and Uncle asks how it went, he finds himself suddenly blinking back tears.


	3. (and I knew there would be space I couldn't fill)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iroh worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it makes a difference to you in terms of TWs, this chapter touches on Zuko's PTSD a little more directly than the previous ones. Just forewarning.
> 
> I really enjoyed writing Iroh's POV, but it's difficult to capture his voice. Hopefully he's recognizable.

Fact #9: Something is very wrong, and Iroh intends to find out what.

He calls up the stairs half an hour before the kids need to leave for school, then again at fifteen minutes, then five. At the third reminder, Azula emerges, but he knows better than to think she'll accept his offer of sweet buns. He offers them anyway. She sits down at the table with one of her smoothies and scrolls on her phone while she drinks it.

Zuko doesn't appear at the top of the stairs until the bus is already at the corner. He looks like he’s just rolled out of bed.

"I'm picking you up later for your doctor's appointment," Iroh reminds him as he jogs out the door. Iroh hands him a Tupperware container with several sweet buns, and quietly hopes that they will be eaten.

At dismissal, Zuko is late getting to the parking lot, and consequently they're late arriving at the pediatrician's office. Zuko leans back into his hoodie, and when the doctor asks him why they're here today, he scowls and shrugs.

Iroh barely refrains from sighing. "Zuko has been experiencing fatigue, loss of appetite, frequent headaches, mood swings—" that earns him a glare. "Quite frankly at first I was willing to attribute it to stress, but I’m becoming alarmed by some of these symptoms, the weight loss in particular."

"Uncle-"

"That is the truth. You should have answered for yourself if you didn't want me to say it."

"Well, let's just see how we're doing," the doctor says kindly. "Please take off your shoes and step up here, Zuko,"

Iroh doesn't miss how Zuko's face twists in reluctance before his socked feet tiptoe onto the scale.

The doctor frowns when he compares the result to Zuko's last checkup, but he doesn't comment. He asks a lot of questions about Zuko's habits and mental wellbeing, and receives about half of the answers as single words. Zuko adamantly denies that he’s eating any differently than usual. 

Iroh is not surprised when he is asked to step out of the room so they can speak further. At the end, the doctor tells Iroh that they will take Zuko at his word and run some lab tests to rule out other causes of unexplained weight loss. But he also passes along a handful of pamphlets about teenage PTSD and eating disorders.

Fact #10: Zuko’s lab results come back normal.

It’s not his thyroid or his pancreas or some other tidy little problem with a medical solution. He has some nutrient deficiencies that line up with their suspicions. The doctor offers a number for a nutritionist and a counseling center.

Later that week, Zuko doesn’t come downstairs to catch the bus in the morning.

“I dunno, I heard his alarm go off but he hasn’t come out of his room,” Azula explains as she’s shrugging on her backpack. It’s the least hostile communication he’s gotten from her in a while.

“I will check on him. Have a good day.”

Azula’s mask of nonchalance returns before she shuts the front door, lest he think that she was softening up. Azula had been in a different place emotionally with her father when the abuse had come to light, and she hasn’t quite forgiven Iroh for his role in Ozai’s loss of custody.

Iroh knocks on Zuko’s door gently. There is no response, so he slides it open.

“Go away, Uncle. I don’t feel well,” says the lump under the blankets.

“Oh dear,” Iroh tuts, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He reaches out a hand and Zuko flinches.

Iroh grimaces apologetically, and tries again, more slowly. He touches the back of his hand to Zuko’s forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever.”

Zuko sets his jaw and stares, as if waiting for Iroh to call his bluff or scold him or make him get up.

“Get some rest,” Iroh says gently. “I will be downstairs if you need anything. If you’re feeling up to it in a few hours, come down and I’ll make you some tea.”

Zuko nods, for a moment looking for all the world like the nine-year-old in dragon pajamas who loved having sleepovers with Lu Ten in this very room. A familiar pain contracts in his chest, almost comforting in its predictability, when he thinks of his son. Lu Ten had been easy, at least as easy as any teenager could ever be. Naturally there had been a preteen phase where he was suddenly too old to cry on his father's shoulder, but then he'd grown up and realized that no one is ever really too old for that. Iroh hadn't always known how best to guide him, but the trust between them had been mutual and grounding.

Trust is what Ozai robbed his children of. Iroh knows he is trying to build up from a poorly laid foundation, but it's all he can do.

Iroh calls the school to excuse Zuko’s absence, then calls Ming at the Jasmine Dragon to excuse his own. Then he calls the counseling center.

Fact #11: Iroh has never met a problem that he couldn’t make a Pai Sho metaphor out of.

“You knew this wasn’t going to be easy,” Piandao muses, leaning his elbows on the table as he watches Hakoda get his ass handed to him.

“Correct. I cannot undo all the damage that my brother caused. Perhaps only time can,” Iroh agrees as his slides his hibiscus tile to the left, giving Hakoda a path to approach his side of the board.

“My kids have been worried,” says Hakoda as he takes the opportunity to move his tiles closer. “They’ll be happy to see him today.”

“I am thankful he decided to go back. I didn’t wish to argue with him about it, but three days in bed was pushing the limit. He acts as though he expects to get in trouble for needing a sick day, and that’s exactly what I don’t want to reinforce.” Iroh takes his next turn. “But he also needs to go to school. If it’s truly so bad that he can’t attend, then he needs to let me help him do something about it.”

“And do you think it is?” Hakoda asks quietly, apparently surprised that it was that serious.

Iroh falls silent. They both know about Ozai—it’s hard not to, when the richest man in a small town loses his business empire—but Iroh hasn’t shared any other intimate details with his companions. He wouldn’t want to put Hakoda in the position of hiding the information from Sokka and Katara, nor does he want to betray Zuko’s trust.

“So you think you know what’s going on, but he won’t tell you,” Piandao guesses.

“Something like that, yes.”

Hakoda moves his peony tile forward again and slides Iroh’s hibiscus off the board. Iroh strokes his beard in thought.

“I know teenagers are a whole different game, but that reminds me of a phase Katara went through where she wouldn’t talk to me about Kya,” Hakoda offers. “It seemed like it was the direct face-to-face conversations that overwhelmed her. We did a lot of woodworking together that winter just to keep her hands busy and her guard down, and when she was ready, she opened up.”

Piandao nods. “You put her at ease and gave her a chance to come to you,” he summarizes.

Hakoda gives him a confused look, until he sees Iroh moving in behind his forces and beginning to pick off several of his tiles one by one. The game is over.

Fact #12: Taking care sometimes means giving space.

Iroh manages to wheedle Zuko into helping him close up the Jasmine Dragon that afternoon. He’s always found it to be calming, meditative work, nothing like the high-pressure office job he’d once held at Azulon’s company. There’s something simple and satisfying about wiping down the tables and resetting everything to be fresh and new the next morning.

He and Zuko unload and stack dried dishes from the washer in comfortable silence. Iroh waits, wondering if the silence will become something more. It doesn’t, but that’s okay.

The semester ends, and a new one begins. Azula has a falling out with Ty Lee over a boy and spends another month on Mai’s couch. Zuko willingly gets in the car and allows Iroh to drive him to therapy, but Iroh isn’t sure how much it’s actually helping. (Privately after their sessions, Dr. Jee tells Iroh things he already knows, like not to take it personally if Zuko doesn’t open up. It doesn’t mean that Zuko doesn’t understand that Iroh is safe and Iroh loves him, in fact that might be part of the reason. Iroh is emotionally involved, and Zuko might be afraid of causing him pain with the truth.)

Zuko’s weight has stopped dropping so dramatically, and Iroh would almost be inclined to let his guard down if he weren’t still frequently skipping school.

“Zuko, do you feel ill, or is this a mental health day?” Iroh asks from the bedroom doorway after he watches the bus pull off from the corner quite Zuko-less.

Zuko turns his head on the pillow. “Does it matter?” he grumbles.

“Yes, the diagnosis affects the treatment. If you are contagious or in need of extra sleep, you should stay home, but otherwise I believe you might feel better if you showered and came out to the _Dragon_ for a few hours.”

Zuko groans.

“It will feel good to be out of the house. You can use the break room and work on some of the assignments Sokka dropped off yesterday.”

“Just go away,” Zuko growls. “Leave me alone.”

Iroh sighs.

“Alright. You may stay, but you must spend some time on your assignments this morning. Is that fair?”

“ _Fine._ ”

Iroh goes to work, and buries his worries in it. It’s a slow, rainy Wednesday, and only a few of his regulars are mulling around.

By afternoon the café area is deserted. Iroh lets Jin go home early, and is toying with the idea of closing up and turning in himself when the door bells jingle.

He looks up, and puts down the stack of saucers he is holding with a loud clatter. “Zuko? Is everything alright?” Iroh hurries around the counter to meet him in the middle of the shop.

The look on Zuko’s face quickly turns to annoyance. “I just came to see if I could help,” he huffs.

Gradually, Iroh’s heart stops beating in his throat. “That’s very kind of you,” he says, trying to project calm. “It’s been quite slow; I was just about to flip the sign to closed. Could you help me count the drawer?”

While Zuko is verifying the cash in the register, Iroh empties the few leftovers in the pastry display case into a to-go box. Then they both settle down in the office so Iroh can fill out the day’s reports.

“Jin made these,” Iroh says, very casually, nudging the box of leftover ginger cookies towards Zuko. “They won’t be as good tomorrow.”

He takes a cookie himself, and then deliberately looks down at the paperwork while Zuko breaks one in half. A few minutes later, Zuko reaches back into the box for the other half.

They fall into their usual, easy pattern. Iroh suspects that Zuko finds cleaning up the shop to be meditative, too. He and Zuko start wiping down opposite sides of each table and meet in the middle

Feeling emboldened by his success with the cookies, Iroh decides to nudge a little further, while Zuko’s hands are busy and his mind is calm.

“Nephew, I’ve noticed that you have been taking meals alone more and more often. Is there a reason you’re not comfortable in front of other people?”

Iroh thinks that this is a very diplomatic approach, if he says so himself. It isn’t accusatory, and doesn’t insinuate that Zuko is being deceptive about when and how much he eats, even though Iroh believes that to be the case.

Zuko scrubs diligently at a tea stain that Iroh knows is just a knot in the wood.

“People watch me,” he finally admits. “ _You_ watch me.”

Iroh doesn’t try to deny it. “I worry about you. I want you to be healthy, because I love you very much.”

Zuko turns away from the table and, for a brief moment, looks as though he’s about to vomit. The moment passes.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko suddenly whispers.

“Nephew,” Iroh abandons the half-cleaned table and pulls Zuko into an embrace. “You can always tell me anything, but it's also alright if I am not the one you confide in. Have you at least talked to Dr. Jee about this?”

Zuko wriggles his arms, which are pinned by the hug. “I don’t want—I just want to go home.”

Iroh releases him. “Alright. Let's go.”

“No, I want to go _home_ ,” Zuko’s hands curl into fists and his bottom lip quivers in anger. “I want to go back to before everything got so screwed up.”

Iroh blinks as he processes what that means. Anger bubbles in him, and deep, deep sorrow. He reminds himself that it’s normal for Zuko to have complicated feelings about his abuse, and his life before everything. He centers on the fact that regardless of those feelings, Ozai will never, ever lay hands to his children again. He lets his anger go.

“Zuko,” Iroh says. “You have gone through a great deal, and I can see that you've been miserable. It is time for you to start thinking about what will make this better, and what steps you can take to get there.”

The frustration falls off Zuko’s face, leaving only blankness in its place. “I love you too, Uncle,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry I said that. I’m fine. I promise.”

“I’m not sorry you said it. And you are not fine,” says Iroh. “But I need you to believe that you will be.”


	4. can't erase what i wrote in ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are possibly just a little bit worse than Zuko thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual TWs apply, but this chapter will be the most visceral in terms of the physical consequences of Zuko's behavior. Please proceed with caution.

Fact #13: Zuko isn’t in control anymore.

His body tries to reject everything he puts in it, whether it’s an intentional binge or just a bite of Sokka’s snack or a home-cooked meal offered with a worried smile. Purging was a tool which he had thought he could wield to achieve a specific end. Now it’s wired into his brain.

He’s so weak that climbing stairs makes him dizzy. He can feel his blood pressure dip when he stands up too fast. He doesn’t know exactly what he weighs (because the bathroom scale disappeared from the towel closet not long after Uncle started making veiled comments) but he knows he wouldn’t be considered clinically underweight (and therefore, he can’t really be sick, he’s not starving so it’s clearly not that bad).

His phone vibrates.

_\- Hiking this weekend?_

Sokka’s text makes Zuko’s heart sink.

The disorder puts up walls, and makes Zuko’s world smaller and smaller.

(like how he doesn’t go to Aang’s house anymore because of the time he threw up in their bathroom after Monk Gyatso interrupted their video game session to offer huge slices of fruit pie which he’d already plated so it felt too rude to refuse. After that, Zuko had started declining Aang’s invitations, and Aang had eventually stopped offering them.)

(or the coffee meetup with Mai he turned down because she has enough problems of her own and she hasn’t seen him since he was at his heaviest weight and he was afraid of freaking her out.)

(or this. Zuko can barely walk to class. If he lets Sokka take him up a mountain, he’ll probably pass out.)

_\- Probably have to catch up on projects and stuff this weekend, sorry_

It’s a plausible excuse; he’s been missing a lot of class. He hopes that Sokka’s feelings won’t be hurt.

_\- Booo. Both days?_

_\- Yeah._

Zuko is cognizant, on some level, that he is pushing his friends away. That they don’t know how to interpret his constant complaints and excuses and probably think he just doesn’t want to hang out with them. He doesn’t know what else to do.

When Zuko looks in the mirror, he doesn’t try to fool himself. He sees the swollen glands in his neck, the bloodshot vessels in his eyes, the bruises that form so easily that he often doesn’t remember where they came from. He knows he looks terrible. He’s surprised to find that he _likes_ it. He likes the sharp angles and deep shadows that make him look as small and feeble as he feels. A fragile, pitiful thing that might escape the notice of people with hands that liked to hurt.

With that thought, he decides that he’s not going to school today.

He wonders what his father would think, if he saw him now. There isn’t much flesh left around his waist to pinch and sneer about. He shudders at the memory. Deep down, Zuko knows that Ozai would simply find something else to criticize, and Azula is fitter than him even now because of volleyball anyway. He writes that down in the notebook that Dr. Jee makes him keep of topics to discuss from week to week, but trying to put it into words makes it feel stupid and pointless and suddenly he’s too empty to feel angry.

Then, since Uncle has already left for his shift at the _Dragon,_ Zuko makes one more attempt to purge anything left from breakfast. After bringing up mostly bile, he coughs until he sees stars and has to sit down on the bathroom mat. A dull pain seizes up in his chest, then fades.

Sokka’s next text makes him audibly sigh.

_\- You’re not in homeroom._

_\- That is a factual statement._

Sokka replies with a gif of a sloth asking “why?” and Zuko shuts his phone off and goes back to bed.

Fact #14: Nobody’s patience is infinite, and that’s something that Zuko has always known deep in his soul.

Uncle’s patience is far-reaching. He is kinder and more tolerant and more willing to hear Zuko’s side of a given story than Father ever was, but Uncle is a parent, and in Zuko’s experience, no parent is ever willing to put up with his bullshit indefinitely. It’s only a matter of time until Uncle will give up on him. Maybe Azula has the right idea by refusing to put down roots here. He contemplates this in Lu Ten’s bed, in Lu Ten’s room, until he falls back asleep.

He’s vaguely awake when the doorbell rings. And rings. And rings. The ferocity of the ringing is playful in a way that screams either Sokka or Suki. He glances at his phone, and sure enough, it’s around the time they would be heading home from school.

Eventually the ringing stops.

 _\- Homework on the stoop, hope you feel better_ comes the text from Suki.

 _\- Hope your neighbors don’t have sleeping babies or anything. Answer the door sometime_ from Sokka.

It might be playful joking? It’s probably playful joking. Or maybe Sokka is mad. Unclear. Not unlike parents, the patience of friends is known to be a finite resource.

It’s dark the next time he opens his eyes. He hears footsteps creaking up the stairs.

“Zuko?” Uncle calls softly, knocking and opening the door in a single motion. “How are you doing?”

“My head hurts,” Zuko replies, and it isn’t a lie.

“Someone left these on the stoop for you,” Uncle says, setting down a folder full of papers and a glass container with a slice of fruit pie which must be from Aang.

“Okay.”

Uncle makes him sit up and take his migraine medication. He puts a mug of thin soup on Zuko’s bedside table, the most gentle meal that he can think of, and still Zuko can’t bring himself to eat it. It will only come back up, and Zuko is so tired. His stomach muscles are sore, and his face hurts. He can’t do it.

Uncle looks exhausted. Zuko wonders if this is it, if this is the end of Uncle’s rope. It sure feels that way.

“Zuko, please give it a try,” says Uncle, always polite even though his tone doesn’t sound like a request. “I won’t watch you. I’ll go downstairs.”

Zuko resigns himself the fact that he’ll just have to eat it and then puke again, and he’ll have to do it silently. It will be better than arguing with Uncle, or causing Uncle to freak out thinking that things are bad (they’re not that bad). He waits until the bedroom door is almost closed to choke out, “Th-thank you.”

Iroh’s smile is more of a grimace.

Fact #15: Things are possibly just a little bit worse than Zuko thought.

Zuko is very familiar with the sensation that he’s about to pass out. It’s usually a decent gauge for when he’s pushing just a little too far.

He wakes up in the morning and doesn’t even contemplate getting up for school. He’s been home for three days in a row now, and the compulsions to binge and purge have prickled under his skin constantly. He’s been indulging them, probably too much, but he can’t help it. It’s the only thing that slows the constant bleeding of shame into his gut.

Today, though, he’s too tired to do either. He just lies prone and closes his eyes and waits for the fuzzy-fogginess in his brain to subside.

It’s late again when Uncle’s key turns in the lock downstairs. Zuko hears feet coming up the stairs and feigns sleep as the light flits on.

Uncle shakes his shoulder gently. “Zuko, I brought home takeout.”

“Ow,” Zuko mumbles. “Turn it back off.”

“Another migraine?” Uncle asks as he flips the light switch back. Zuko nods. “Have you gotten out of bed today?”

Zuko isn’t sure whether to lie, but his silence speaks for itself.

“I think you need to get up and get your blood flowing. Why don’t you take a shower?”

“Ugh,” Zuko whines. He doesn’t want to move.

“No, Nephew, get up. I will change the bedsheets and start setting up for dinner while you’re gone.”

Zuko begrudgingly puts his feet on the floor and stands up slowly, because if he rises at a normal speed he will get a feeling of blood rushing from his head and he will end up on the ground. He grabs a towel from the closet and shuts himself in the bathroom.

Zuko doesn’t remember getting in the shower. He does remember the corners of his vision going fuzzy. He knows what it feels like when his blood pressure drops and this is similar, but more intense. It hits him like a sack of concrete. He remembers pain, the bathtub floor, water spraying in his face.

He remembers Uncle’s cry of “Zuko?”

He remembers maneuvering himself around to reach up and shut off the water.

Although he doesn’t remember putting shampoo in his hair, he must have done it before he fell because he remembers Uncle rinsing it out, tilting his head back under the faucet while he is curled up in one of Uncle’s fuzzy bath towels like it’s a blanket.

He remembers Uncle guiding his arms through the sleeves of an old sweatshirt and helping him into the car. He remembers a voice saying, “Azula? I am taking your brother to the emergency room, please call me when you get this.”

He remembers seizing pain in his chest and strangers’ voices asking questions and needles and a hand squeezing his, sometimes too tightly, but comforting in its constancy.

#16: This is not something that Zuko knows for a fact. It is either a nightmare or a very real moment that he is certain he was not supposed to overhear.

Zuko’s eyes are shut, his head feels like it’s about to explode, and the world is spinning. Uncle is there, and someone else.

“His potassium is very low, and it’s causing an irregular heartbeat. It looks like there is some damage to his heart, we should know more soon,” she says.

Uncle’s hand reaches out to grip the doctor’s elbow.

An urgent, broken whisper, barely recognizable to Zuko, begs, “Please. I cannot bury another child.”

Fact #17: Zuko does not want to die.

Iroh’s words are still ringing in Zuko’s ears when he wakes up to an unfamiliar room but a familiar ache in his stomach. Before he even remembers anything else about what happened, there are tears on his face.

A hand—Uncle’s hand, he knows immediately—is stroking the hair out of his face, shushing softly.

“I don’t want to die,” Zuko blurts out.

“You are not going to die,” Uncle reassures him. All of the vulnerability is gone, replaced by the calm and kindness that Zuko is used to seeing on his face. “You are still quite dehydrated. They are giving you fluids and electrolytes to help you feel better.”

Uncle keeps stroking his hair. Zuko notices that he has two IV lines, one stuck in the inside of each arm, and some kind of tubing taped to his face. It runs through his nose and down the back of his throat.

Zuko swallows. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t want it to get this bad. I didn’t want this.”

“That is good to hear,” says Uncle. “Zuko, the doctor said you have some organ damage that suggests that your electrolytes have been out of balance frequently, for a long time. She said this isn’t common in otherwise healthy people, unless they are in the habit of abusing laxatives or inducing vomiting as a form of self-harm. Is that—”

Zuko doesn’t wait for a direct question because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to make himself answer it. “Just the second one,” he admits quickly, and Uncle’s reaction is subtle, but unmissable. Zuko might as well have slapped him in the face.

“I thought—I thought you knew,” Zuko adds.

Uncle clears his throat softly. “Let this be a crossroads for you, nephew. Let this be the thing that makes you decide to get better. That is all that we want for you.”

“I…I really want that,” Zuko says, and finds himself meaning it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarity, Zuko is not going to be magically cured by this experience. The way I see it, this incident scared the pants off of him and more importantly, brought Iroh up to speed, and those things will help motivate his recovery, but it won't be permanent or easy or linear. It never is.
> 
> Thank you again to all who are reading and/or commenting, it means the world to know someone is listening.


	5. what came before won't count anymore or matter (we can try that)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko wants to get better. At least, he's ready to try.

Fact #18: Being in the hospital gets old very quickly.

Zuko gets admitted from the ER sometime around midnight. He gets thoroughly interrogated by a counselor, but she seems pleased when he tells the truth: that he didn't mean for things to go so far, that he doesn't want to hurt himself, yes he’s safe at home with Uncle, and that he wants to try to comply with treatment.

They keep telling him he’s lucky. Dehydration can be righted in a matter of days, malnutrition in a matter of weeks, and he’ll have to be monitored periodically by a cardiologist but the damage shouldn’t be permanent.

Zuko and Iroh both slowly stop holding their breath.

Zuko eats what’s put in front of him in the morning, even though his spoon feels heavy. His stomach churns and threatens to reject it, but he’s scared and he promised to try and Uncle holds his hand until it subsides.

“Zuko, we need to discuss what happens next,” says Uncle softly. “The doctor said that she doesn’t think you need inpatient care.”

“You mean like…a mental hospital?”

“Yes,” says Uncle Iroh, clearly trying to sound nonchalant about the possibility, even though his knuckles are white on the bed rail. “She thinks that if you are motivated to recover and in a good mindset, we can treat this at home. Do you agree?”

Zuko nods quickly, because Uncle looks awful and he’s trying to hide it but he’s just as afraid as Zuko, and nothing about that is okay.

“They are going to give us a meal plan that they want you to follow. I also want you to start seeing an eating disorder specialist in addition to your therapy, perhaps a few times per week to start.”

“Okay,” Zuko says, closing his eyes as Uncle calls this what it is, for the first time in so many words. He hadn't told anyone, not even Jee, the extent of what he'd been doing. Only Azula knew. Now Uncle knows, and Uncle is scared and that's not okay. Zuko was never supposed to be his problem to deal with, but he thinks bitterly that he’s brought nothing but pain and fear into Uncle's life.

He glances at his phone in attempt to avoid the conversation at hand.

Five successive texts await him.

_\- are you ok_

_\- Katara says that Azula says that you went to the ER last night_

_\- wouldn’t say why, and you don’t have to share_

_\- but Toph is an anxious mess so if you could text either me or her that you’re alive that would very much help_

_\- and let us know if there’s anything we can do_

And Zuko almost cries because somehow he’s manipulated Sokka and the rest of his friends into worrying about him just like he’s worried Uncle. And this never should have been such an issue, he knew it was harmful and he kept doing it anyway because he felt out of control and it _hurt_ , and he _liked_ that it hurt because he felt like he deserved it. And now it’s hurting people who didn’t deserve it at all.

“Nephew,” a whisper breaks his spiraling thoughts. “What is it?”

Zuko shakes his head.

What he wants to say is: _I’m sorry your son is dead and I’m sorry for occupying his bedroom and existing in his space and making you worry, and I’m sorry that trying to exist less somehow made it worse instead of better._

What he says is, “I miss Lu Ten.”

Uncle's face twists in more pain, but before Zuko can regret his admission, Uncle grabs him by the shoulders. “So do I, Zuko, every day,” he says in a voice thick with tears. Then he sits up straighter and says, “Zuko, you are my son too. I hope you know that I will always think of you as my own, and I am so, so proud of you.”

Zuko almost snorts. “Proud of—“

“I am proud,” Uncle says, talking over him, “That after everything you’ve had to struggle with, you are still here, and still trying. And I am proud of you for having the clarity to accept the help you need.”

Fact #19: Azula’s voice is more high-pitched than usual.

“Hey, dum-dum,” she says as she approaches his bed. “You can’t even eat without screwing up, can you?”

“Stop,” Zuko growls. “Stop acting like you’re so much healthier.”

“You almost puked yourself to death,” Azula points out with a snort.

“Yeah, well,” Zuko shifts a little in bed. Part of him really hates Azula seeing him while he’s so weak. “The dehydration was why I collapsed, but they said the arrhythmia has been happening for a while now. I thought it was okay because I wasn’t starving myself, but it did actual damage to my heart. It’s gonna take a long time to heal.”

“It will heal, though, right?” Azula asks, forgetting to sneer.

“They think so. If I stop.”

“Are you going to stop?”

“Yeah.” He pauses for a moment. “Zula, you need to stop, too. Let Uncle help you find somebody to see about it.”

The sneer returns, and Zuko knows he’s got her defenses up. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not like you.”

“Zula there are like, what, _five_ foods left that you’re not afraid to eat?”

“Maybe it seems that way to you, but I’m not in the habit of stuffing my body full of poison.”

The barb lands exactly as she intends, and Zuko swallows the lump of shame that rises in his throat. Zuko has wished so many times that food and comfort were not so inextricably bound in his mind. Father would call him a pig for bingeing, and Mom—well, she’d probably be soft and worried like Uncle if she knew everything, but in a different context she would say it’s unkind and irresponsible to waste food.

“You sound pretty defensive,” Zuko finally says, more to remind himself to disregard her words than out of any hope that Azula will listen.

Then Uncle comes back into the room and Azula folds her arms, saying nothing more.

Fact #20: The first few days are painful. Iroh expects nothing less.

After two nights of observation, the doctors are ready to let Zuko go home.

As Iroh sits down in the driver's seat of his car, sudden uneasiness squeezes his chest. He hopes that outpatient treatment is the right choice. He doesn't know if his old heart can take another incident where he finds Zuko on the floor and mentally disoriented.

He gets Zuko home and persuades him to get a serving of a supplement shake down before he says he wants to go to bed. They both know he didn't sleep well at any point in the hospital.

Iroh can't help it, he hovers. He brings an extra quilt, and Zuko loudly balks when he tries to tuck him in so he takes his hovering downstairs.

The house is quiet. He receives a very kind text message from Ming, politely inquiring after his family. He’s told the staff of the Jasmine Dragon that he’ll be taking some time off to care for Zuko. Iroh replies, then takes to puttering around the house until he needs to wake Zuko up to eat - he is supposed to try taking more frequent, smaller meals throughout the day to avoid triggering his nausea.

Yesterday he and Zuko had poured through the packet from the hospital’s dietician until Zuko begrudgingly pointed out a few meals that seemed manageable to him. The one Iroh flips to now is a simple recipe with eggs and rice.

Zuko takes his plate and turns back towards the staircase.

“Zuko, please join me down here for a while. Perhaps when we’re done, we can play some Pai Sho?”

“Do I have to?” Zuko grouches.

"Yes. I want to spend time with you, dear nephew."

"Bull. You just want to supervise," Zuko snaps.

"Yes, that too," Iroh admits. "I would like to be able to trust you in the near future, but right now I feel it's more important to make sure you are not doing more damage to your body."

"That's...fair," Zuko says, sounding startled by his honesty. He sinks down to the low table.

Iroh keeps him at the table losing games of Pai Sho for at least an hour, as a little extra insurance that the meal will stay down.

“I don’t like this game,” Zuko complains. They both know he barely means it.

“Losing makes you wiser,” Iroh points out. “When your opponent surprises you, that means you have learned a new strategy.” He winks. Zuko rolls his eyes.

Zuko comes home from his first appointment with the new specialist in what Iroh can only describe as “a mood”. He eventually wheedles out of Zuko that she had told him point-blank that she was accustomed to treating young women, and then lectured him about unattainably airbrushed men in sports dramas and magazines. Zuko had no idea how to even begin to explain that it’s more about self-hatred than perfectionism. It’s about the intense numbing comfort of binging and the illusion of punishing control that comes with purging.

Iroh turns back to the list the hospital gave him and calls a different number.

The second specialist is better. She prescribes him an antidepressant, and encourages Iroh to join them for the last third of the session so they can talk about the goals they’ve set and what Zuko needs to feel supported. Iroh starts to understand that Zuko’s self-worth is rooted in his fear—fear that his acceptance by other people is conditional. Fear of needing external support or comfort, lest it turn out to be temporary.

In that light, the state of Zuko’s bedroom (not Lu Ten’s bedroom) makes sense.

"Zuko,” Iroh says brightly the next morning, “It is time to tackle these boxes.”

Zuko looks unsure.

“Do you want to pick out one or two of them to start with?” Iroh suggests. “This is your space and you can do what you want with it, but wouldn’t it be nice for things to look a little more settled?”

Zuko picks out two boxes. They’re already opened (it’s been a year and a half, after all). One of them is even filled with clean laundry that has been folded and put right back into the box rather than the bureau.

Iroh kneels on the floor and sorts things into piles by clothing type, and lets Zuko decide which drawer each type belongs in. Underneath the clothes is a pile of books, which Zuko takes his time arranging alphabetically on the shelf.

The second box is much the same. “Bureau,” Iroh says as he sets a stack of t-shirts to his right. “Bookshelf,” he says as he sets three paperbacks to the left. “Ah…bookshelf?”

Zuko hastily reaches for the item in question. It’s a three-ring photo album, but when it falls open in Zuko’s hands Iroh sees that where the photographs would have gone, there are index cards with recipes written out in his sister-in-law’s elegant, flowing script.

“I—I stole this,” Zuko says. “Father was throwing out all the stuff she left behind.”

Iroh looks at Zuko for permission before he traces a finger over one of the cards, a recipe for red bean buns, safe in its plastic sleeve.

“Your mother was quite the baker, I remember,” Iroh pats his stomach fondly. “I’m glad you were able to hold onto it. Would you like it to live in the pantry with the cookbooks, or on your shelf here?”

“The shelf,” Zuko decides.

Iroh smiles. “Wonderful.”

Fact #21: Every parent inevitably says things wrong.

This is a fact that both Jee and June have told Iroh at various points. They encourage him to research and to listen, but also to prepare for the moments when his words pluck at unexpected sore nerves, especially at this fragile stage.

Iroh doesn't know everything (he knows it's healthy for Zuko to have space, but he hates that he can't know everything), but from his vantage point, the evidence suggests that Zuko is doing better. He’s been less lethargic, taking his vitamin supplements and SSRI, eating like he should at most meals, and keeping it down. He agrees to occasional tile games with Iroh with only precursory griping, and spends a lot of time buried in paperback novels.

Hakoda calls, almost sheepishly, asking after Zuko on behalf of his kids. Apparently Zuko has cut off communication with all of them, and they would please like to know if he’s alright and whether he might come back to school soon. Iroh gladly reports that Zuko intends to ease back into school in a few days. But worry drops like a stone in his stomach. Isolating oneself from friends is not a good sign.

Iroh is self-aware enough to realize that he is ruminating too much about the kids’ wellbeing. He ruminates on this new information until the end of the day.

Zuko only gets through about half his supper before he starts pushing a bite-sized piece of beef around and around his bowl. In hindsight, that should have been a red flag.

“Zuko, how did your appointment go today?” Iroh asks.

“Good,” says Zuko without looking up.

“Did you and Jee talk about going back to school?”

“Um, sort of.”

“Okay,” says Iroh in a measured voice, waiting for more details.

“We talked about calling the guidance counselor. Because I might be too far behind to catch up in calc.”

“I see.” Iroh nods. “Do you need it to graduate?”

“I’m not just going to quit,” Zuko growls.

“But you just said—” Iroh cuts himself off. “Zuko, it’s alright if you can’t manage a full courseload and recovering from your illness at the same time.”

“Don’t—stop calling it that.”

“What term would you prefer?”

Zuko doesn’t have an answer to give. Iroh takes a new tack. “Isn’t your friend Sokka in that class? Perhaps he could help you catch up.”

Zuko exhales noisily, nostrils flaring.

“I’m sure he would be happy if you texted to ask,” Iroh ventures. “Your friends must be worried about you.”

That was apparently the biggest misstep yet. Zuko stands up from the table. “Well, they shouldn’t be. Stop making this everybody else’s problem, Uncle. It’s mine. Nobody else gets to have an opinion on it.”

“Easy, Zuko. I apologize. I only meant that your friends care about you. Would you please sit down and finish your dinner?”

“I’m done,” says Zuko as he marches to his room.

Iroh allows himself a sad sigh before he clears the dishes. He makes himself a lonely cup of calming tea.

He knocks on both of the kids' doors before he goes to bed. It doesn't get him anywhere.

That night, after several sleepless hours, Iroh gets up to find himself an extra quilt. The bathroom light is on. He hates that he has to stop to listen, and he hates that what he hears confirms his suspicion.

Iroh knocks, and the gagging sound stops.

He opens the door slowly to see Zuko in tears.

“Oh dear,” are the words that fall involuntarily from Iroh’s lips.

Zuko makes a startled noise and chokes on a sob. “I-I ruined everything,” he confesses. His shoulders shake.

“Oh Zuko,” Iroh says as kneels down on the rug where Zuko is sitting. Zuko moves a few inches closer to the wall. Iroh blinks. Somewhere in Zuko's subconscious, does he expect to be greeted with anger? Punishment?

This is not the time for Iroh's emotions, but for the sake of his own thumping heart, he has to ask, “Was this the only time?”

“Yeah,” Zuko sniffs.

“Then you didn’t ruin anything at all. Hush, it’s alright.”

"I'm so _stupid_."

“Lots of people in your situation make slip-ups, Zuko. You are still on the right path. This only becomes a relapse if you let it.”

“I made it six days,” Zuko scathes with a halfhearted roll of his eyes.

“I know, and you should still be proud of them.” Iroh gestures for Zuko to come closer and Zuko allows himself to be wrapped up in Iroh's arms. “In every game of Pai Sho, the most important move, nephew, is the next one. Tomorrow you will have another chance.”

He raises an eyebrow, and Zuko can’t resist half a smile in fake annoyance. The sobs have quieted now, but tears are still spilling from his eyes.

Zuko groans into Iroh's shoulder. "I'm so _angry._ I just wanted to feel okay, just go back to making everything go away for a few hours. But it didn't even work. I felt bad the whole time, and now I feel gross."

"Try to remember that feeling for next time, Zuko."

Zuko hides his face further into Iroh's fuzzy robe. Iroh pats his back, and then starts to stand up.

"Why are you even still up?" Zuko asks as he rubs the tears from his eyes.

Iroh shakes his head. "When you get to be my age, you may also find that sleep eludes you," he deflects. “Brush your teeth, and go back to bed. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Zuko says nothing, just darts in for one more quick hug.


	6. i will sing no requiem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After two weeks of recuperation, Zuko tries to get back to his life. Both triggers and triumphs lurk in unexpected places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be the second to last chapter! I tried and tried to cut it down but in the end I decided to just split it. Hope you all are doing well with everything that's going on in real life this week.

Fact #22: Zuko is seven days clean from purging. It’s one day longer than his previous record. And he is crawling out of his skin.

Uncle had, at one point, floated the idea of homeschooling Zuko for the rest of the year, but Dr. Jee had been skeptical. Zuko quickly realized why. He is itching without structure and regular interactions with people other than his uncle and his various doctors.

He’s ready to go back to school. Iroh, Dr. Jee, and June all think so. Zuko thinks so too, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

As he walks down the hall, Zuko scrunches his shoulders subconsciously with his hands stuffed in his uniform pockets, wishing for his comfortable hoodie. Uncle had cooked him breakfast and given him several hugs and finally a forehead kiss and a gentle shove out the door.

He is fiddling with his locker when he hears Sokka’s voice shout behind him, “Oh, no way!”

“Zuko, you’re okay!” Aang shouts jubilantly. Other kids throughout the hallway turn to look, and Zuko cringes.

Aang is practically vibrating. Katara is silent, just slightly frowning. Sokka smiles, but it falters when he takes in Zuko’s face.

“You look…” Sokka halts mid-sentence and reframes. “How are you?

Zuko knows how he must look to them. When he glances at his reflection, Zuko sees the things that have gotten better in the last two weeks – the kilo or two which has crept back on and the insane bloating from the aftermath of the dehydration incident which has finally gone down. He realizes that it must be different, seeing the full effects of his illness for the first time. He swallows. “I’m okay.”

“We were worried,” says Katara, and there’s an edge to her voice even if she doesn’t mean it to be there. Zuko tries unsuccessfully to swallow the lump in his throat.

“I know,” feels like the wrong thing to say, but it’s the truth.

“We’re really happy to see you, Zuko,” says Aang, giving Katara what might’ve been a warning look. “How come you didn’t mention you were coming back today?”

“I’ve just—it’s been a little hectic,” Zuko flounders.

Aang nods in sympathy.

There’s no anger on Katara’s face, but she looks frustrated. “Toph was really upset when you didn’t text anybody back,” she says quietly.

“Toph! We have to tell her Zuko’s here—c’mon Katara!” Aang takes Katara’s hand and bounces into the crowd of students in the hall. Zuko exhales loudly.

“Yeah, they can be a lot,” Sokka agrees, leaning against the lockers next to Zuko. “Don’t worry too much about Katara.”

Zuko nods and turns back to shoving his textbooks in his bag.

“Hey so,” Sokka asks. “Are you back…like, for good?”

Zuko pauses a moment to breathe carefully. “I think so.”

Sokka nods. “So the stuff you were going through…it’s better?”

“It’s better,” Zuko affirms. “Sokka, you know I wasn’t, like, sick exactly.”

“Weren’t you in the hospital?”

“Yeah,” Zuko clears his throat. “But it wasn’t like something that just happened to me out of my control, it was sort of my fault. It was something I did to myself. So you don’t need to be all…like you’re talking to a cancer patient or something.”

“Shit,” Sokka whispers.

His eyes are so wide that Zuko suddenly realizes what that must have sounded like.

“No, wait,” Zuko says hurriedly. “I didn’t try to hurt myself, I mean, I did some things that were harmful but it wasn’t—okay.” Zuko doesn’t know how else to explain it. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it. It’s better now, but I can’t promise that it will be for good. I might never be able to promise that. Sorry.”

Sokka pauses too long, and Zuko is suddenly seized with the suspicion that Sokka knows—Sokka must know, he’s probably seen enough of Zuko’s weird behaviors and fluctuating appearance. 

“Nobody’s asking you to promise that. I’m glad you’re okay,” Sokka finally replies.

“Thanks,” Zuko mumbles.

Sokka makes an attempt at his normal sarcasm voice. “All that matters is that you’re back in the action, back in the A-plot after your brief soliloquy, ready to join the rest of the protagonists for…adventures and stuff.”

“Please stop talking,” Zuko relaxes his shoulders and allows a bit of humor to creep into his own voice.

“Got it,” says Sokka cheerfully.

Before Zuko can make it to homeroom, he’s greeted with an earnest punch in the shoulder followed by a swift hug and Toph demanding from the others to confirm that Zuko was all in one piece. He’s missed them too, but he already wants to go home. The mysterious disappearance and reappearance definitely hasn’t helped with the staring.

He’s exhausted by the time he meets Iroh in the parking lot at the end of the day, but he doesn’t regret that they scheduled an evening therapy session.

Dr. Jee is a brick wall. Months ago Zuko had been uncomfortable with his aloofness, but eventually he had realized that nothing he says can make the man emotional, and strangely, that helps. Uncle cares—he cares _so_ much, and the facts that are painful to Zuko hurt him too, which adds a layer of unintended consequences. Here, Zuko knows which lines not to cross (he knows what things Jee would be mandated to share with Iroh or the police or both), but otherwise he can snap insults or yell or cry, and Jee will be there, unfazed, to help him unpack whatever comes to the surface. There are several topics they haven’t touched yet, boxes that Zuko is too afraid to open. Jee says that’s not surprising or concerning, and that it doesn’t matter how long it takes.

“How are you doing?” Uncle asks, passing by the couch where Zuko is sitting and depositing a steaming mug of jasmine into his hands as he makes his way to his armchair.

“Okay, I think,” says Zuko, and it doesn’t feel like a lie.

Fact #23: Zuko is thirty-five days clean from purging.

It’s Friday, so Zuko isn’t surprised to be called to the school nurse’s office during his free period. He is already in the middle of taking off his shoes when she asks him to. He steps onto the scale. Instead of a digital screen on the scale itself, there’s a wire that runs up to a little box on the nurse’s desk, so she can see how much he weighs but he cannot. He tries not to care. She types the result into her computer and tells him he can go back to study hall.

Part of Zuko is desperate to know all the numbers, but he’s starting to wonder if he could be comfortable here, wherever “here” is. Maybe he can just stay steady in this place where he feels okay and his doctors seem happy enough.

Zuko is daydreaming on the way home from the bus stop, and his feet take him unconsciously to the convenience store where he used to plan his binges. He freezes in the doorway for a moment.

The cashier looks up at him. He moves inside, letting the door rattle shut behind him. His stomach aches with so many truly disgusting memories pressing in on his mind. With shaking hands, he randomly selects an item (a cellophane package with two custard buns), buys it, and leaves.

He gets home, and he’s still shaking too hard to get the key in the lock easily. Once he gets inside, he changes into his comfortable hoodie and stares down his purchase. He can’t, he won’t. Binging without purging is what ruined his body image in the first place, and Zuko has worked too hard to check off thirty-five days without purging. He is not going to go back to counting from zero, and therefore, he can’t indulge in either behavior.

(Never mind the fact that June would probably say that an unplanned snack is not the same as a binge.)

The pastries are processed and gross and they’re just going to remind him of all the afternoons he spent shoving chemical-tasting sponge cakes into his body. They won’t be as good as mom’s custard buns anyway.

(If Zuko is going to trigger himself, he might as well eat something _good_. That thought makes him laugh.)

An hour later, Iroh gets home. The pastries are still on the counter, and Zuko is sitting on the floor with Ursa’s recipe book in his lap.

Zuko blinks hard to make sure his eyes aren’t too glassy. Uncle kneels down next to him, still wearing his coat and boots.

“What’s going on?” Uncle asks softly.

Zuko shakes his head, and accepts a hug when it’s offered.

Uncle looks over his shoulder at the page he was studying. “Do you want to make these sometime?”

Zuko looks up, startled. “You think we can?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Now?”

Uncle rubs his beard thoughtfully. “May I see?”

With gentle hands, Uncle guides the index card out of its plastic sleeve and reads the directions on the flip side, nodding. “This says we can proof the dough instead of letting it rise overnight.”

“Good,” says Zuko, standing up. “Can we? I mean, you just worked all day making pastries and tea and stuff, but I really, um,” Zuko bites his lip. “I could really use something to do.”

“I know just the remedy for that,” Uncle smiles, with just a twinkle of his usual brand of concern in his eye that tells Zuko that Uncle was able to guess what he meant by that. Within a few minutes he has whipped up a sticky ball of water and flour and placed it into Zuko’s waiting hands.

“Knead for five minutes at a time, then let it rest for one,” he instructs.

Zuko rolls his eyes and declines to wear one of Uncle’s goofy aprons, so before long he is coated in a thin dusting of flour. He doesn’t mind too much.

Uncle makes the custard while Zuko wrestles with the dough. He thinks about Mom giving the cook the week off when Father was on a business trip and letting him sit on the kitchen floor and play drums on upturned pots and pans while she baked. There was nobody there to criticize him when he snuck up and grabbed one of the steaming buns off the cooling rack—Mom had only laughed when he realized it was still too hot and dropped it. Azula had been somewhere nearby in a bouncy-walker, and she had laughed because Mom was laughing, not because Zuko had screwed up.

“That should do,” Uncle hums. Zuko realizes he’s been kneading rather forcefully.

He feels wholly unprepared when Iroh sets the full piping bag of custard into his hands, but it’s not hard once he gets a feel for it. He only spills a little bit, which Uncle swipes off the counter with his thumb and declares delicious.

The kitchen starts to smell like vanilla and cardamom, and it takes all Zuko’s self-control not to grab one when they come out of the oven just like he did when he was four. He’s not nauseous. This is good, untainted food, from a time before his brain felt so broken.

Uncle breaks out one of his rarer tea blends for the occasion, and the nice plates. They’re just sitting down at the table when Azula gets home from volleyball practice.

She strides into the kitchen to bring the reusable to-go cup from her lunchbox to the sink. She opens her mouth, probably to say something cruel about Zuko and Uncle eating sweets, but then she stops.

“Are those…Mom’s?” she asks, in a voice that doesn’t sound like her own.

Her face smooths back into indifference immediately. She reaches out to pick up a bun, then stays her hand. Then decides to go for it after all. She rinses the lid of the to-go cup and uses it as a plate.

“Why don’t you join us, Azula?” Uncle offers, even as Zuko cringes.

Azula makes a soft snort in the back of her throat and walks out the door and up the stairs to her room.

Zuko puts his pastry down.

“Uncle, did you see that?” Zuko asks quietly.

Uncle nods.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he mumbles. “How she like, only uses one specific bowl, and eats the exact same meals every day, and never lets anybody else touch any of the ingredients?”

“I know,” says Uncle.

Zuko shakes his head impatiently. “She’s better at hiding it, and I don’t think she does the kind of stupid stuff I did, but that’s not normal.”

“I know, Zuko.”

“You do?”

Uncle nods again. “I tried for a long time to speak with her about it. She apparently finally said something to Ukano while you were in the hospital. I’m not going to give you any specifics, just as I assume you’d rather I keep the details of your mental health private from her, but you should know that she’s getting some help. You don’t have to worry about her.”

Zuko swallows a bite of custard. “I know she’s my sister, and you probably want me to get along with her,” he says, vaguely aware of the petulance creeping into his voice.

“No, Zuko. You need to find a way to exist under this roof with her, but you get to decide whether that means simply calling a ceasefire, or attempting to rebuild your relationship into a healthy one. Or perhaps something in between. Your job is to heal yourself, not her."

He’s a bit angry, and a lot relieved. Azula’s a hypocrite and she makes his insides squirm but she’s not drowning, nobody needs him to dive in to save her. She can be safe. He can be safe.

It’s kind of foreign concept. Zuko wonders if he will get used to it.

**Author's Note:**

> You guys keep me writing. Seriously, thank you to everyone who's read this and especially those who've shared their thoughts and experiences with me. It means more than you know.
> 
> ~*~*~*~*~*~*
> 
> More specific warning information:
> 
> Things you will NOT find in this story: exact numbers of pounds/kilos/calories, actual abuse scenes (the past is discussed but there are no flashbacks or Ozai cameos), drugs, self-mutilation, sexual content of any sort
> 
> Things you WILL find in this story:  
> \- Depictions of eating disorders: Zuko has EDNOS (focus on binging, purging, and restricting), Azula has undiagnosed anorexia/orthorexia (focus on restricting, compulsive food rituals). Depictions include psychological symptoms (disordered thoughts, sometimes from Zuko's POV) and physical symptoms (stomach problems, dizziness/fainting, weight loss/gain).  
> \- A few fatphobic attitudes or comments (said by Azula or in the past by Ozai)  
> \- Depictions of past abuse & PTSD: Both Azula and Zuko were physically abused by Ozai and Azula also bullied Zuko. Ozai went to prison for the incident that gave Zuko his scar and Iroh became their legal guardian.  
> \- Therapy/general hospitalization (not psych)/mentions of prescription medications  
> \- Mentions of death/near death experiences (but no actual death or suicidality)  
> \- Descriptions of food, both positive and negative  
> \- A happy-ish ending—not unrealistically perfect, but hopefully satisfying.  
> 


End file.
